


Not Really a Sport

by PeriPeriwinkle



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, M/M, Professional sport players
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-10
Updated: 2017-12-10
Packaged: 2019-02-12 19:25:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,608
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12966657
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PeriPeriwinkle/pseuds/PeriPeriwinkle
Summary: Bull gets approached during a formal party by Dorian Pavus, tennis player extraordinaire, with a rude jibe at his profession; Bull is used to it, really, but not so much used to people who don't really mean their harsh words.For once it seems the press is, indeed, right; Dorian Pavus is an interesting man.





	Not Really a Sport

**Author's Note:**

> my attempt to help bury negativity where it belongs: HIDDEN AND FORGOTTEN!!!!
> 
> enjoy this lovely AU that Chantel inspired :D enjoy!!!!]
> 
> (this is unbeta'd)

“As if wrestling is even a sport.”

 _Ah_. Of _course_.

Bull turns around, an easy grin on his lips, and looks down at the offender, making sure not to let his shock of seeing _who_ it is exactly show too much on his face.

Dorian Pavus, tennis player extraordinaire, is currently shooting him quite heated glances from behind a champagne flute. Bull’s used to the insults, really; people often poke fun of a sport where they think all you do is grab onto sweaty guys, struggling and grappling on the floor for dominance while also having just this bit of _too much_ skin touching. He’s heard people say the same thing of judo even, and he knows it’s all bullshit. He knows what’s behind the sport: the techniques, the training, the tactics. he _is_ a two-times olympic gold winner, after all, not to mention all of his other achievements. But all it takes is a quick look at Dorian and he _knows_ that the man’s jibe is, at best, only half-hearted. His eyes scream _fire_ , but his body language is relaxed, and the frown on his lips looks more fabricated than anything else.

He’s trying to make conversation without looking like it.

It’s cute.

“Sure, and running after a ball like an overly excited puppy is,” Bull jibes back, just as half-heartedly, and sure enough it gets the intended reaction: Dorian gawks, makes a high pitched sound of distress, and looks him straight in the eye, having to crane his neck up to do so. Bull chuckles.

“I beg your pardon!” Dorian exclaims, then coughs behind his hand when his voice cracks, bronze skin flushing red as he does so. “I...! I have never been so insulted!” And even so, Bull still thinks it to be more of a half-truth than anything; Dorian looks more embarrassed than actually offended.

Bull shrugs, sips on his beer. Lets a moment of silence hang between them as Dorian seems to fume at him. When his lips part, apparently to say something more, Bull shoves his hand forward.

“I’m Ashkaari,” he says, all matter of factly, taking Dorian by surprise. “But everyone calls me The Iron Bull.”

“ _Well_ ,” the man breathes out, shifts the flute to his left hand and wraps his right around Bull’s. He squeezes tightly, straightens his back to appear taller, even though he still only barely reaches Bull’s clavicle. Taller than plenty of people he’s met, but still. It makes Bull’s grin widen. “Dorian Pavus. Although I find it hard to believe we do need introductions, mister Ashkaari. We’re well aware of each other’s titles.”

 _Titles_ , not names. “So you _do_ watch my matches,” Bull beams, and Dorian shrugs, taking another sip of his champagne.

“One has to be in touch with all of the Olympic games to know who their allies are, do we not?” Dorian says, voice a bit lower but loud enough to be heard by Bull and no one else. Bull raises his single brow, and suddenly thinks back to a few years ago, when it leaked out that one of his most recent partners was a man instead of a woman, as the paparazzi were used to see under his arm. The scandal was nasty business, but Bull handled it smoothly, coming out to the public as pansexual, and overall in the end he gained more friends than enemies. He wonders if the use of word “allies” was an accidental one on Dorian’s part, but Bull has a feeling that everything Dorian does and says is deliberate and coldly calculated, a result of decades upon decades spent under the spotlights. He knows in Tevinter the whole deal is especially nasty.

“Well,” Bull drawls out, looking around to make sure their conversation is private. Indeed the reporters attending the party are already already gone or way past shitfaced drunk, the moment for interviews and pictures long gone, but still Bull takes care not to seem overly friendly. If Dorian is implying what he thinks he is implying, he doesn’t want to out the man in front of a bunch of noisy and slimy paparazzi who’d delight themselves in ruining the man’s career and personal life. Satisfied, he takes a few steps away to a table with small sweets, leaning against the wall as he sets his beer down on the flat wood. Dorian follows him, settles on the opposite side of the table and imitates Bull’s relaxed stance against the wall, a sly grin curling up on his lips. “ _Allies_ are very important in this business indeed. But are you an _ally_ or a _comrade_ in arms?”

At that, Dorian pauses, slowly reaching over and taking a chocolate sweet from the table, eying it in contemplation. Bull gulps the rest of his beer down, setting the empty bottle on the tray of a passer-by waiter. He looks around, watches a couple make out in a corner while a lone photographer happily takes pictures, and waits. It’s a heavy question, he knows it is, and he doesn’t know what Dorian must be thinking. He doesn’t need to watch him try to figure it out. Let him do it himself.

Finally, Dorian breathes out, and pops the chocolate in his mouth. Bull turns his head and watches the man chew, deliberately slowly, and swallow before saying, “a comrade, I’d wager. Though not like you.”

“Not like me, as in...?”

Dorian shoots a small glare to the taller man, shaking his head slightly. The grip on his flute tightens visibly, and it nearly makes Bull flinch. “Kaffas, must you _really_ have me say it out loud?”

Shit. Talk about stepping over someone’s toes.

“No need, big guy. Sorry, I didn’t mean to pry. Do you want me to leave you be?”

Dorian looks up then, and his eyes roam over Bull’s face, his expression, as if assessing him. Bull is genuine, if it means anything; he knows he made Dorian uncomfortable, and he’s one hundred percent willing to fix it by leaving him alone. But Dorian shakes his head lightly, and tips the remains of the flute onto his mouth, setting it onto the table.

“No, there’s no need. I never thought I’d say it, but although we just met, I find your company... comforting.”

Bull’s got no reply to that, so instead of saying anything, he reaches for the sweets, picks out the same chocolate one Dorian just had, and bites into it. Dorian watches, and involuntarily licks his lips. If he had to guess, he’d say Dorian plays for the Boy’s Only team, but he hates guessing, so he doesn’t ask. But whoever Dorian plays to – besides his tennis league team, _HA!_ – Bull knows that he’s somehow, somewhat, interested in Bull, and Bull would be lying if he didn’t think Dorian gorgeous. He’s always been a sucker for ravishing men that take extra care on their appearance and still manage to make it look effortless. Double that for men who could pin him down with the right look, but who also would be the prettiest when they came undone.

Okay, maybe Bull is a bit smitten, and maybe he’s letting his imagination run a bit wilder than he’d like as far as first introductions go, but he’s not about to complain. Dorian looks ten times more intense in person than he does behind the cameras. It’s almost a religious experience, being able to be next to him and hear his voice, crisp and clear and confident.

“So. Tennis, huh.” Dorian looks up, his smile a bit shy, a bit hesitant. Bull looks right back down and gives his most charming grin, then eats another sweet. “Sounds fun. I’ve never played it.”

“It is,” Dorian says, taking a coconut covered truffle and popping it whole in his mouth. “I could teach you, someday, if you want.”

“Well, I have the day after tomorrow off, if you’d like.”

“Why, mister Ashkaari, are you asking me out on a date?” Dorian asks, smiling cheekily. Bull looks around, making sure the photographer is still too occupied with the couple actively trying to swallow each other’s face whole, then leans in over the table, just a bit closer to Dorian. He sees the man gulp, his Adam’s apple bobbing beneath his skin. Bull grins.

“Actually, _you_ were the one asking _me_ out; I just supplied a doable date. And please, Dorian. Call me Bull.”

“Lies and slander,” Dorian breathes out, shaking his head. From his suit pocket, he produces a small paper pad and a pen, then scribbles something on it. “Monday it is, then. I know the perfect place. But I do expect dinner after the whole ordeal. And I know your size and your profession, as well as general gossip, usually says otherwise, but I’m _assuming_ you can do discreet.”

“You assume right,” Bull smiles, then nods. “See you then, Dorian.”

Dorian nods back, taking his cue and discreetly leaving the piece of paper on the table when he takes the champagne flute back, like an accidental slip of his hand. He gives Bull one final look, a look that could sear holes into icebergs, and saunters away, walking like he owns the whole place, and _hell_ , he probably very well could.

Bull waits a minute or two, watching the young couple finally sit down to cuddle without a care in the world as the photographer looks through the photos on his camera with a maniac glee in his eyes, then reaches over, takes the paper plus a couple more sweets, and he too walks away from the table.

He finds Krem at the bar, sipping on a margarita, and asks him if he’s ready to head out.

“Thought you’d never ask, chief,” he says, then gets up, leaving his frilly drink behind. “You’re awfully cheery. I saw you and that Pavus superstar talking. You two hit it off or somethin’?”

“You could definitely say that,” he says, smiling as he eyes the address on the paper. Monday just cannot come fast enough.

\--

Bull looks out through the window of his garage. Three paparazzi cars are standing right outside his house, and when the young guy on the front takes note of him, all five of them stand to attention and snap a few pictures, screaming his name before he ducks back inside. The paparazzi stand down, all on high alert; They all know now that The Iron Bull is taking his car out.

Just as expected, his official black car with dark windows slides out from beneath the automatic door, promptly ignoring the paparazzi and driving away. Immediately, all five men enter their own cars, chasing away after Bull’s, all the while screaming and begging for a photo, a smile, anything for their latest gossip column.

Five minutes later, a smaller, more modest car saunters off the garage, Stitches driving and Grim by his side. On the back, Bull remains ducked, just in case some paparazzo with more than half a brain stayed behind.

“You’re ridiculous sometimes, chief. I like that about you.” Stitches laughs as he follows the GPS, and Bull, squeezed on the floor behind the back seats, grunts.

“Just make it quick, Stitches. Don’t know how much my leg can handle being back here like this.”

“I will go as fast as I can without risking your life, thank you very much,” he says, but still he speeds up a bit. Bull grins.

Twenty minutes later they arrive at their final destination. Stitches drops him off, both he and Grim jokingly blowing him kisses goodbye, and Bull gives his name at the reception, where the woman nods and writes it down.

“This way, mister Hissrad,” she says, and Bull follows her through a door that leads to a long hallway, and behind the last door is a wide, beautifully spotless tennis court.

And there, warming up on his own, is Dorian.

Dorian, wearing a white tennis outfit, hitting tennis balls that are being shot from an automatic machine at the other end of the field, skin glistening with a thin layer of sweat and face twisted in concentration. The woman nods and grins before turning around and leaving, and Bull is left standing where he is, mildly shocked.

Dorian doesn’t miss a single ball.

Once they stop coming does Dorian turn around, huffing a little, although he smiles brightly when he sees Bull. He jogs over, stopping a few feet in front of him, and Bull grins. This Dorian has a much different energy from the Dorian from the party, reserved and cautious and almost arrogant. This Dorian feels at ease, happy, relaxed in what is obviously his environment. He nods up at Bull, then looks down at his jeans and sneakers, raising a single brow.

“I presumed you wouldn’t have the proper attire for this sort of sport, and it appears I presumed right.”

“You did,” Bull chuckles, shrugging. “To be honest, I had no idea if you were serious about teaching me, so I came with something comfortable.”

“Jeans, my dear friend, are _not_ comfortable, especially when it comes to tennis. You wouldn’t wrestle in those, would you?”

“Fuck no.”

“Precisely. Come, I took the liberty of asking for some clothes that could probably fit you.”

Bull follows Dorian to a side door, and inside he’s faced with a huge dressing room, complete with multiple lockers and pristine showers. It is so clean the white tiles seem to sparkle, and he whistles.

“Fancy place you got here, ‘Vint.” Bull says as Dorian steps aside to towel himself off and fix his hair.

“ _I_ don’t have anything. This is a friend’s tennis club, and occasionally he’ll close it down upon my request, given I provide advanced payment. The paparazzi don’t know about this secret of mine, and I intend to keep it that way.”

Bull nods, then thumbs the outfit hanging on a hanger on the wall. Nice fabric, and it seems just his size, so he chucks his shirt and toes his shoes off. He’s halfway through unbuttoning his pants when he hears a muffled scream behind him.

Bull turns his head just in time to see Dorian twist around sharply, and from this angle he sees that the tip of the man’s ears are red. “A little forewarning, perhaps!” Dorian squeaks, then stalks out of the locker room, banging the door behind himself.

Bull chuckles as he dresses, fetches the racket lying on one of the seats, then steps out, watching Dorian gather the multiple tennis balls scattered around the court and shoving them forcefully into a bag. He still looks flustered, face a bit red from something other than the nine-am sun, and pointedly avoiding looking at the dressing room’s way. Bull starts helping out, gathering the ones closest to him and cradling them on his arm, and once they’re both done he approaches Dorian and dumps his armful inside his bag. The man nods, glances up shyly, and reaches inside for one ball, which he tucks in his pocket.

“Right. You got the racket I left you?” He asks, and Bull nods. “Let’s start then.”

Surprisingly, Dorian is a fairly good teacher. He’s patient when explaining to Bull how to hold and grip the racket, and chases around for the balls Bull accidentally sends away more times than Bull cares to count. Dorian explains how to properly hit the balls, and how to predict your opponent’s movements. Bull has seen Dorian playing, and it’s easy to tell that he’s pulling back his punches, and it makes Bull giddy. He doesn’t _have_ to go easy on him. He could be wrecking Bull in this game, mocking him and calling him names, but instead...

...instead, he’s being one of the most considerate and nicest guys he’s ever been on a date with. He treats Bull as an equal, no matter that at least in this field he’s obviously superior, and Bull smiles like a doofus when he misses yet again and sends the ball flying way over Dorian, who grins, shakes his head, then turns around to fetch it. Again.

“And what are you smiling about?” Dorian asks, and Bull wipes his forehead with the back of his hand, smiles wider.

“Nothin’. This is fun.” He replies, which, well, is only half a lie. He sucks at tennis, but he is having a great time with Dorian, and Dorian looks a lot more relaxed than he usually is when he sees him giving out interviews and attending public meetings.  The Tevinter smiles widely, then bounces the ball on the floor.

“Well, I’m glad you’re enjoying it, Bull. Maybe someday you could teach me how to wrestle too.”

Bull lifts a single brow. “Really?”

“Well, no. Not really.” They both laugh, and it’s easy, natural. “But maybe you could take me to watch a match, or maybe whatever it is you do for fun. I imagine I would probably enjoy it.”

“Watching two guys sparring and struggling over who can overpower the other? Oh, I could see you enjoying that.”

Dorian blushes again, and this time he looks a bit taken aback. “I beg your pardon! What are you implying?!”

“You know what I’m implying, Dorian. Come on,” and he nods back to the ball, clutched tightly inside Dorian’s closed fist, taking a stance with the racket in both his hands. “Nuff’ chatting. Let’s play some more, yeah?”

Dorian relents, although begrudgingly. He looks pissed for a few minutes, then he starts taking his revenge by playing slightly better, and making Bull be the one chasing the balls around because he’s missing all the shots. Bull grins wickedly, and in retaliation he starts hitting his opening throws as hard as he can, making Dorian squeak and dodge them so he won’t be hit. “Oh, _I see_ how it is,” Dorian shouts from across the field after the fourth potentially murderous shooting ball. Bull’s about to apologize when Dorian turns and dumps the whole bag of tennis balls inside the pitching machine behind him, and without a hint of hesitation, turns it on.

It’s an open war after that.

Bull, at first, tries to hit the balls that comes his way, but they’re a lot faster than they were when Dorian was the one trying to hit them, and he barely has any time to react, especially when Dorian starts sending back his way the few balls he manages to get over the net.

The machine spits one last yellow, fuzzy comet of death what feels like mere seconds later, and Bull aches, bruises all over his thighs, ass, arms, chest, and even one on his forehead. Thankfully his legs managed to protect his delicate assets, but apparently the machine of death decided to retaliate by hitting literally everywhere else instead.

He flops to the floor, grunting at the three balls lodged on his back, and vaguely he hears Dorian laughing his ass off while walking his way. Bull opens his eye, huffs, and Dorian bends down, hands on his bent knees, and shakes his head.

“You’re a mess,” he says, giggling, and Bull grins up at him, panting.

“You love it, big guy,” He drawls out, trying to look charming, but it just makes Dorian laugh harder.

“Come on, I think we’re done with tennis for today. We both need a shower, and if I recall correctly, you promised me dinner.”

Bull grunts on his way up, then waggles his eyebrows suggestively. “Oh? A shower, huh?” He asks, and Dorian rolls his eyes exaggeratedly, walking away towards the changing rooms.

“Well, aren’t you eager?” He asks, but there’s a hint of amusement in his tone, a deepness to his voice that wasn’t there a moment earlier.

“With the prospect of getting naked and soapy with a hot guy like you? Hell yeah I am,” he says, low enough and close enough to Dorian’s ear that he can see his dark skin flushing, can hear the stutter on his breath, the hesitation on his step.

“You are...! Fasta vass. Are you _always_ this straightforward?” Dorian asks, looking a bit taken aback, and Bull shrugs.

“When I feel like I hit it off pretty well with the person I’m seeing, yeah, I usually am. I can step back if that’s not what you were looking for, though.”

“No! No, it’s just...” Dorian stops, looks around, then resumes walking and enters the dressing room, keeping the door open for Bull. The wrestler steps inside, and Dorian closes the door gently, leaning back against it. He sighs, then looks up at Bull, pupils a tad blown, cheeks still flushed and hair disheveled. He looks gorgeous from head to toes. “I’m not... _used_ to this. To people being so unashamed and open of _what_ and _who_ they want. Or rather, who they _are_. I envy you on that front, to be quite honest. Always have.”

“Hey, the media can be quite nasty. I know it firsthand, and I wasn’t as well known back when everyone found out, so in a way I got lucky. Your secret is more than safe with me.” Dorian keeps looking at him, breathing heavily between his parted lips. Bull _really_ wants to kiss him. “Now it’s up to you, big guy. If you want to stop altogether, that’s ok. If you want to keep kissing, that’s also very ok. If you want us to get naked and step together inside that shower, that’s _more_ than ok. If you want to do both at the same time, well _damn_. I’ll be the happiest man alive.” Dorian laughs, but it’s breathless, and he bites at his bottom lip. Bull smiles. “Whatever happens between us today, you can be sure I won’t make a peep to the presses. I promise.”

“Oh, that’s...” Dorian says, breathing out, and he locks the door behind him. Bull’s heart speeds up a little as the man steps forward, eyes locked with Bull’s. “That’s reassuring.”

“Does that mean I can kiss you?” Bull asks, and Dorian grins.

“I was just about to ask you the same,” then he pulls Bull down by his ear and kisses him.

The trip to the shower is clumsy, since neither of them detach themselves from each other’s lips for longer than it takes to take their shirts off over each other’s head. Clothes get scattered around, legs get tangled, hands slip on sweat slicked skin. The hot water spray is a blessing on Bull’s back, and Dorian, looking wickedly dangerous, squeezes Bull in all the places where the tennis balls hit him the hardest, making Bull moan, gasp, buck against the smaller man, rubbing against wherever he can reach. Dorian helps, but only slightly, by hooking his leg around Bull, then arching into his touch, undulating his back and hips to the rhythm of a music that only he can hear.

Bull hasn’t had a partner that intense in years; hell, he’s probably never had a probaby that intense _ever_. Dorian was hesitant at first, almost shy, but as they melt into it it seems like his true self surfaces. His hand is firm, his movements deliberate, and it’s like he sets everywhere he touches on fire. The warm water makes Bull’s muscles loosen, and he leans back against the shower wall, the cold grounding him for a second and allowing his shaky legs some much needed extra support. The position also allows them both to become soaking wet, Dorian’s hair falling over his eyes and water running down his face in rivulets. It’s a gorgeous sight; Bull sighs as Dorian parts his lips to breathe, then leans in and takes Bull’s lips in a messy kiss that Bull quickly reciprocates.

Somewhere in between devouring each other and detaching themselves just long enough to breathe, Dorian wraps both his legs around Bull, ankles crossed over his buttcheeks. Bull responds in kind, grabbing a hold of Dorian’s thighs, squeezing hard enough to leave some lingering ache that Dorian won’t be able to blame on the afternoon’s exercise. In this position Bull’s dick fits perfectly between Dorian’s buttcheeks, slippery yet hard as rock, while Dorian’s trapped against both their stomachs, rubbing back and forth to get as much friction as possible.

It doesn’t last very long, as much as Bull might want it to never end. Dorian moans, his voice echoing off the tiled walls, muffled by Bull’s lips and tongue and the water raining hard onto both of them, his hips moving faster as he presses harder against Bull, muscles tensing as he slowly but surely peaks closer to orgasm. Bull feels the warmth quickly building up in him as he revels in the sight and the uniquely wonderful sensation of another person coming while wrapped in his arms.

When Dorian comes, he bites down on Bull’s shoulder, shuddering all over, body freezing. Bull moans, the pain running down his side like an electric jolt, only serving to edge him on, but the friction he’s getting is still too little to push him over, no matter how dangerously close he already is. Dorian relaxes little by little, breathing hard against Bull’s skin once he manages to detach his teeth from his flesh, licking and kissing the mark in a silent apology. Bull hums and nuzzles the side of his head.

“I feel like I’ve neglected your cock,” Dorian whispers under Bull’s ear after he’s recovered, sending a shiver down Bull’s spine. He licks his lips, tasting the warm water from the shower head, and gulps.

Words, Bull. You can do words.

“Don’t worry ‘bout me. You don’t gotta do anything.”

But Dorian tsk’s, untangles his legs from behind Bull’s back, Bull gently helping him down until his feet are safely on the ground.

“Nonsense. Such a lovely cock, it’d be a true shame to leave it hanging like this. Please, let me.”

He reaches for a small bar of soap on the wall, lathers his hands and starts, much to Bull’s surprise, soaping Bull’s pectorals and stomach, the water almost immediately washing off the foam. Bull reaches back and turns the shower off.

Like this, the foam grows and spreads freely, coating his body, and Dorian seems enthralled, running his slippery hands up and down and around every single groove Bull has, whether it’s a toned muscle, fat, or a scar. Soon he’s looking down at where Bull’s cock lies between his legs, very much erect and just slightly bending down due to its own weight. Dorian bites his lip, eyes half lidded in hunger, and with no hesitation whatsoever wraps his fingers around the base, using both hands to soap up the shaft, the perineum, the balls, with a firm yet gentle touch. Bull moans.

At first, Bull figures he’d probably describe what Dorian’s doing as a handjob, or a massage. Soon he realizes he’s wrong; he’s having more of a _religious experience_. No other way to explain what Dorian’s doing with his hands without selling it short. Most people are intimidated, maybe even scared, of Bull’s sheer size and girth, but Dorian just kneels down on the wet tiles of the shower and continues lathering the soap onto Bull looking like a cat who’s got the cream. In Bull’s experience this is where his partner would speed it up and try to coax an orgasm out of him as quickly as possible, but Dorian seems unworried. He takes his time, the rhythm of his hands never faltering, sometimes speeding up just to slow back down, making sure to twist and grip just right, like he knows Bull’s dick since forever and is not just _used_ to it, but is deeply in love with it. It doesn’t take too long for Bull to scream himself hoarse - something he admittedly rarely ever does - and spill onto Dorian’s waiting hands.

And it is one of the best orgasms Bull has ever had.

Dorian gets up, helps Bull slide down and sit on the tiled seat inside the shower, then straddles his lap and kisses him, over and over again, while Bull just lies back and tries to get his breath back. Dorian chuckles and kisses both his cheeks.

“We should _really_ wash up if we want to make it to dinner on a decent time.”

Bull chuckles, kissing Dorian right back.

“I guess I _could_ go for some food right now.”

 

\---

 

It takes a while for them to untangle themselves from each other, but eventually they manage to dry up and get dressed. Bull gives Dorian the address, and Dorian promptly drives them there, in a sleek silver car with tinted windows that blends in perfectly in the city. The maitre invites them both in, and quickly but without making the other patrons know anything unusual is happening he escorts them both to a private table at the back of the restaurant, where they get a view of the seafront and the sun setting down behind the hills.

“Wow,” Dorian breathes out as soon as the double doors are closed behind their waiter. “This is incredible.”

“Yeah,” Bull agrees, nodding, but his eyes never leave Dorian’s face; Dorian, however, doesn’t notice, still mesmerized by the view. So Bull reaches forward and gently takes Dorian’s hand in his scarred one, and Dorian turns, watching in an even bigger awe as Bull brings his fingers to his lips and kisses them. “But I think the most incredible thing about this evening is that a gorgeous, wonderful guy agreed to go out on a date with me. Which makes me the luckiest man alive.”

“ _Well_.” Dorian pulls his hand back, slowly as to not seem rude, and coughs in his fist, feeling his cheeks warm up. His eyes might even water a bit, and he turns his head once more towards the setting sun to blame it on the brightness. Also so he doesn’t have to keep looking at the smooth grin Bull’s giving him, because it’s making his stomach do flips he didn’t even knew were possible. “Aren’t you the charmer.”

“I’m the char _med_ ,” Bull corrects, and when Dorian peeks back, his grin has only become wider. It effectively makes Dorian’s cheek warmer than ever. “And you’re the enchanter.”

“ _And_ sappy,” Dorian says, giving him a mock glare, and Bull laughs just as the waiter brings in the wine and the entrés. After that Bull lays off the flirting, probably feeling bad for Dorian, and they engage in casual conversation.

For two hours they stay in that table, talking about hobbies, common interests, travel stories. Dorian laughs, genuinely laughs, which honestly surprises him more than once during the evening. He can count on one hand the number of people that he’s allowed himself to put down his barriers around. Bull also looks relaxed; his smile is infectious, he gestures often and widely, and he wraps all of his complaints with positive remarks. He lets Dorian talk his heart out, then shares his own experiences, and too soon the dessert plates are being taken away.

The drive towards Bull’s house is silent, not because they have less to say, but more because they both feel upset that the evening’s over. Dorian’s never felt this way after a date, and he decides not to dwell on it too much; it’s just one date, after all. Too soon to get any hopes up.

He parks behind Bull’s house, a place where the paparazzi usually don’t dwindle, especially at this time of the evening. Once the car is turned off and they’ve confirmed that there is no one around Bull leans in and kisses Dorian again.

It’s a hungry kiss at first, like the ones they shared at the locker room, a kiss that startles Dorian and makes him inhale sharply, but soon it slows, melts as they melt into each other, as they lean in closer and turn their heads until they fit just so.

It almost scares Dorian how well they fit, too.

“I had a great day today,” Dorian whispers against Bull’s lips as they pull apart just enough to talk. Bull pecks him on the lips once, twice, then one more time.

“Me too. We should do it again. Maybe I could teach you how to wrestle next time?”

“Oh, that would be _lovely_ ,” Dorian purrs, kissing him again.

They part about a minute later, with great difficulty. Bull leans back to open the car door without ever taking his eyes off Dorian.

“I’ll call you to set it up,” he winks, making Dorian chuckle.

“I’ll wait with baited breath.”

“Goodnight.”

“Goodnight.”

Bull closes the door, gently, walking away with a skip on his step. Dorian laughs at the sight; a huge man, usually so intimidating, walking like he’s dancing on clouds.

He drives away, and somehow arrives safely back on his apartment, even though he remembers almost nothing of the ride there. He’s climbing the stairs to his room when the phone vibrates on his pocket; he picks it up and his heart races when he sees who it is.

 **The Iron Bull:** got home ok?

Dorian shakes his head. What a sap.

 **Dorian:** I did, yes. Thank you for asking.

It takes a couple of minutes for Bull to reply, but when he does, Dorian feels his cheeks warm up.

 **The Iron Bull:** awesome! sleep well big guy  <3

Dorian flops down on his bed, the cold sheets soothing against his almost too-warm skin. There’s a lightness in his chest that he doesn’t think he’s ever felt before, and he sighs out, barely even noticing the permanent smile on his lips.

 **Dorian:** You, too.  <3


End file.
